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She scrubs the toilet bowl with a homemade solution of borax, white vinegar and lemon juice, using a brand new toothbrush. She rinses it under hot running water, before dipping it back into her cleaning fluid.
She rubs an equal mix of vegetable oil and vinegar into the wooden floor, rubbing it in with a fresh white towel, spending half an hour on the area around the toilet alone.
She has a special tube of toothpaste that she saves for rubbing into watermarks with a damp cloth, choosing a completely different brand for her teeth.
She has a cupboard full of hydrochloric acid, ammonia, Tri-Sodium Phosphate, peroxide and a host of solvents, detergents and enzymes. But all of this, all of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the shinny work-tops and fresh lemony scents, all of the calluses and sores, they don’t change a thing.
Her house used to be so different. The tiles in the shower had brown stains, a filthy concoction of body oils and soap scum. The hob in the kitchen was like an island in a brown sea of hardened spills. The sink was full of dishes in murky water, which were wiped only with a filthy rag before being put back into grubby cupboards. The carpets were thick with grime, home to numerous bugs, and cobwebs hung heavy in every corner, occasionally dropping a neglected fly carcass to the floor.
But that wasn’t all that was different. All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. The house is clean, but quiet.
The old chopping board’s been thrown out. It was always slightly greasy from meat fat, yet used for multiple purposes. It was a breeding ground for campylobacter.
The knife she used to slice the partially cooked chicken, sticking it back in the drawer with the slightest of wipes. Before it was a happy home for salmonella, now it gets washed in two different brands of antibacterial liquid, just to be sure.
All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. Jason’s dead, aged six.
“No wonder he always got a stomach upset,” her mother would say as she trailed her finger along a dusty shelf. Her mother was always criticising. So perfect and well organised, always looking for a better way to do something, always looking for a way to save a penny.
But when Jason was struggling for breath, and her mother started yelling that the filthy house had made him ill, she was wrong. When Jason’s nervous system was attacked by clostridium botulinum she blamed the unhygienic kitchen, but she was wrong. When botulism stopped Jason from breathing, and her mother was too busy crying about the clean clothes to dress him in to call for an ambulance, she got it wrong.
Her mother, who’d canned her own produce all of her adult life, didn’t know what lurked in those bulging cans in her cellar. Her mother didn’t need to be told how to can in a hygienic manner, she’d done it all her life. Why buy products from the supermarket when you can grow them at home and can them for future use? No harm in it, is there?
So she scrubs and she cleans to punish herself, thinking mother knows best. She scrubs and she cleans unaware that it would have made no difference at all. And whilst she holds herself to blame for the death of her son the sores and calluses weep, because she cannot.
She rubs an equal mix of vegetable oil and vinegar into the wooden floor, rubbing it in with a fresh white towel, spending half an hour on the area around the toilet alone.
She has a special tube of toothpaste that she saves for rubbing into watermarks with a damp cloth, choosing a completely different brand for her teeth.
She has a cupboard full of hydrochloric acid, ammonia, Tri-Sodium Phosphate, peroxide and a host of solvents, detergents and enzymes. But all of this, all of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the shinny work-tops and fresh lemony scents, all of the calluses and sores, they don’t change a thing.
Her house used to be so different. The tiles in the shower had brown stains, a filthy concoction of body oils and soap scum. The hob in the kitchen was like an island in a brown sea of hardened spills. The sink was full of dishes in murky water, which were wiped only with a filthy rag before being put back into grubby cupboards. The carpets were thick with grime, home to numerous bugs, and cobwebs hung heavy in every corner, occasionally dropping a neglected fly carcass to the floor.
But that wasn’t all that was different. All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. The house is clean, but quiet.
The old chopping board’s been thrown out. It was always slightly greasy from meat fat, yet used for multiple purposes. It was a breeding ground for campylobacter.
The knife she used to slice the partially cooked chicken, sticking it back in the drawer with the slightest of wipes. Before it was a happy home for salmonella, now it gets washed in two different brands of antibacterial liquid, just to be sure.
All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. Jason’s dead, aged six.
“No wonder he always got a stomach upset,” her mother would say as she trailed her finger along a dusty shelf. Her mother was always criticising. So perfect and well organised, always looking for a better way to do something, always looking for a way to save a penny.
But when Jason was struggling for breath, and her mother started yelling that the filthy house had made him ill, she was wrong. When Jason’s nervous system was attacked by clostridium botulinum she blamed the unhygienic kitchen, but she was wrong. When botulism stopped Jason from breathing, and her mother was too busy crying about the clean clothes to dress him in to call for an ambulance, she got it wrong.
Her mother, who’d canned her own produce all of her adult life, didn’t know what lurked in those bulging cans in her cellar. Her mother didn’t need to be told how to can in a hygienic manner, she’d done it all her life. Why buy products from the supermarket when you can grow them at home and can them for future use? No harm in it, is there?
So she scrubs and she cleans to punish herself, thinking mother knows best. She scrubs and she cleans unaware that it would have made no difference at all. And whilst she holds herself to blame for the death of her son the sores and calluses weep, because she cannot.
Enjoyed that
But what killed him! What was with those cans?
Good job on the GAD too!
But what killed him! What was with those cans?
Good job on the GAD too!
A lesson in food preperation for us all there, Meka!
Great little moral tale.
Great little moral tale.
She scrubs the toilet bowl with a homemade solution of borax, white vinegar and lemon juice, using a brand new toothbrush. She rinses it under hot running water, before dipping it back into her cleaning fluid.
She rubs an equal mix of vegetable oil and vinegar into the wooden floor, rubbing it in with a fresh white towel, spending half an hour on the area around the toilet alone.
She has a special tube of toothpaste that she saves for rubbing into watermarks with a damp cloth, choosing a completely different brand for her teeth.
She has a cupboard full of hydrochloric acid, ammonia, Tri-Sodium Phosphate, peroxide and a host of solvents, detergents and enzymes. But all of this, all of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the shinny work-tops and fresh lemony scents, all of the calluses and sores, they don’t change a thing.
Her house used to be so different. The tiles in the shower had brown stains, a filthy concoction of body oils and soap scum. The hob in the kitchen was like an island in a brown sea of hardened spills. The sink was full of dishes in murky water, which were wiped only with a filthy rag before being put back into grubby cupboards. The carpets were thick with grime, home to numerous bugs, and cobwebs hung heavy in every corner, occasionally dropping a neglected fly carcass to the floor.
But that wasn’t all that was different. All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. The house is clean, but quiet.
The old chopping board’s been thrown out. It was always slightly greasy from meat fat, yet used for multiple purposes. It was a breeding ground for campylobacter.
The knife she used to slice the partially cooked chicken, sticking it back in the drawer with the slightest of wipes. Before it was a happy home for salmonella, now it gets washed in two different brands of antibacterial liquid, just to be sure.
All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. Jason’s dead, aged six.
“No wonder he always got a stomach upset,” her mother would say as she trailed her finger along a dusty shelf. Her mother was always criticising. So perfect and well organised, always looking for a better way to do something, always looking for a way to save a penny.
But when Jason was struggling for breath, and her mother started yelling that the filthy house had made him ill, she was wrong. When Jason’s nervous system was attacked by clostridium botulinum she blamed the unhygienic kitchen, but she was wrong. When botulism stopped Jason from breathing, and her mother was too busy crying about the clean clothes to dress him in to call for an ambulance, she got it wrong.
Her mother, who’d canned her own produce all of her adult life, didn’t know what lurked in those bulging cans in her cellar. Her mother didn’t need to be told how to can in a hygienic manner, she’d done it all her life. Why buy products from the supermarket when you can grow them at home and can them for future use? No harm in it, is there?
So she scrubs and she cleans to punish herself, thinking mother knows best. She scrubs and she cleans unaware that it would have made no difference at all. And whilst she holds herself to blame for the death of her son the sores and calluses weep, because she cannot.
She rubs an equal mix of vegetable oil and vinegar into the wooden floor, rubbing it in with a fresh white towel, spending half an hour on the area around the toilet alone.
She has a special tube of toothpaste that she saves for rubbing into watermarks with a damp cloth, choosing a completely different brand for her teeth.
She has a cupboard full of hydrochloric acid, ammonia, Tri-Sodium Phosphate, peroxide and a host of solvents, detergents and enzymes. But all of this, all of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the shinny work-tops and fresh lemony scents, all of the calluses and sores, they don’t change a thing.
Her house used to be so different. The tiles in the shower had brown stains, a filthy concoction of body oils and soap scum. The hob in the kitchen was like an island in a brown sea of hardened spills. The sink was full of dishes in murky water, which were wiped only with a filthy rag before being put back into grubby cupboards. The carpets were thick with grime, home to numerous bugs, and cobwebs hung heavy in every corner, occasionally dropping a neglected fly carcass to the floor.
But that wasn’t all that was different. All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. The house is clean, but quiet.
The old chopping board’s been thrown out. It was always slightly greasy from meat fat, yet used for multiple purposes. It was a breeding ground for campylobacter.
The knife she used to slice the partially cooked chicken, sticking it back in the drawer with the slightest of wipes. Before it was a happy home for salmonella, now it gets washed in two different brands of antibacterial liquid, just to be sure.
All of the scrubbing and cleaning, all of the calluses and sores – they’re all too late. Jason’s dead, aged six.
“No wonder he always got a stomach upset,” her mother would say as she trailed her finger along a dusty shelf. Her mother was always criticising. So perfect and well organised, always looking for a better way to do something, always looking for a way to save a penny.
But when Jason was struggling for breath, and her mother started yelling that the filthy house had made him ill, she was wrong. When Jason’s nervous system was attacked by clostridium botulinum she blamed the unhygienic kitchen, but she was wrong. When botulism stopped Jason from breathing, and her mother was too busy crying about the clean clothes to dress him in to call for an ambulance, she got it wrong.
Her mother, who’d canned her own produce all of her adult life, didn’t know what lurked in those bulging cans in her cellar. Her mother didn’t need to be told how to can in a hygienic manner, she’d done it all her life. Why buy products from the supermarket when you can grow them at home and can them for future use? No harm in it, is there?
So she scrubs and she cleans to punish herself, thinking mother knows best. She scrubs and she cleans unaware that it would have made no difference at all. And whilst she holds herself to blame for the death of her son the sores and calluses weep, because she cannot.